They've got cars, Big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old

When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome, You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging, All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on the corner, Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing 'Galway Bay'
And the bells were ringing
Out for Christmas day
                                                           'Fairytale of New York'   The Pogues

The evening started like many others and the air hung close, heavily scented with the sweet smell of chocolate essence from the Cadbury’s factory at the end of town. The sun was settling somewhere over Queenstown when I entered the Captain Cook Hotel on Albany Street, eager to try and get a few rounds of beer onboard before the concert began. The local Dunedin students knew very little about the Pogues and gathered around to listen as I told them that the group had actually emerged in the closing stages of the punk era. It was one of those few occasions in life, when you feel close to the spirit of the bar and people gathered around as I went on to mention that the band would never have happened except for a chance meeting between their leader, Shane Mc Gowan and the tin whistle-player in an underground station in London. Some of my  medical colleagues were impressed to learn that I had gone to medical college with two of the vocalist’s first cousins and had also drank in his uncle’s Leo’s bar in Frankfurt on a few occasions. The evening progressed as I told them that the band had first played the London pub circuit, and used the irreverent name of 'Pogue Mahone', to snub the  authorities. I lifted my drink and watched as a nearby drover squared his chin and said.

"Well Irish, do you know what the Kiwi meaning of the word Speight’s is then?" while casting his eye on the blue and orange bottle of Speight's Gold Ale that he was drinking. 

"Superior Piss enjoyed in Great Hotel’s in The Southland" he sneeringly continued, in a vain attempt to restore the cultural order of the antipodes. I smiled back and went o nto mention that the vocalist found the inspiration for his music in his Irish roots, as his family had moved from Dublin to London when he was six years old. I told them that the group’s music was also influenced by The Clash and that their third album gone straight to the top of the UK charts. We got up and left for the concert and eventually we reached the small ballroom where the band was playing. My heightened senses quickly noticed how its rafters now were bedecked in the best Kilburnesque green, giving one the feeling that St. Patrick’s Day had arrived a month early. After what seemed like a long wait, the Pogues eventually wandered onstage, balancing Guinness bottles and cigarettes in hand and started playing the opening chords of ‘The Majestic Shannon’. The audience stood around and politely clapped as they finished the tune and started singing Philip Chevron's classic anthem, 'Thousands Are Sailing', a song about the many thousands immigrants who had fled west and arrived to start a new life through the gates of Ellis Island. My heart quickened as they introduced their next song 'Fairytale of New York', which had been a major Christmas hit in Ireland before I had left.

And then it happened, slowly at first, like children woken from a deep sleep, the local crofters moved onto the floor and started swinging gaily to the dysrhythmical pulse of the music. They danced, and as they danced their hearts beat faster and I glowed with the confidence of a race, proud of its language and traditions. There was magic in the Dunedin night and the very soul of the air began to change, like the sun evening dancing on an Irish hillside, like the sudden gust of wind that heralds another dawn. I left the hall that night, tall in the crowd, trying to catch the many searching eyes that all wanted to share the culture of my nation. It was then that I noticed the drover again, his chin less squared and I turned towards him grinning.

"Do you know what the Irish meaning of Speight’s is then?"

"Shane’s Pissheads Enjoy Irish Guinness Here in The South!"